


Take This Waltz

by trickybonmot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Friendship, Gen, Relationship Advice, engagement jitters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2235366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickybonmot/pseuds/trickybonmot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes Molly ballroom dancing for a case, and gives her some real talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take This Waltz

Molly is in the middle of weighing a rather sad-looking middle-aged man’s liver (the liver, that is, not the man—well, both of them are a bit sad-looking, actually) when her mobile rings. She’s used to ignoring interruptions, though, and finishes her task before picking it up, noting down the measurement and then carefully lifting the liver back into its labeled plastic container. She peels off and discards her purple nitrile gloves before fishing out the phone, which by now has stopped ringing. Sherlock. The fact that he called instead of texting suggests he’s going to ask her for a favor. With an only _slightly_ resigned sigh, she calls him back.

“Hullo, Molly. Can you dance?” He sounds doubtful.

“Um. What kind of dancing?”

“Ballroom. Waltz, mostly. Viennese.”

“Social, or exhibition?”

“Social.”

“Yeah, I can do that. Why?”

She hears Sherlock let out a breath. “It’s for a case. I’m gathering information on a certain embezzler who also happens to be a dance enthusiast. It’ll look suspicious if I turn up alone.”

Molly frowns. “Sherlock, I’m not sure I can really go on a dancing date with you. I’m engaged, you know?”

“Since you’re engaged, it can’t possibly be a date. Please, Molly? You’re the only one who can help me.” 

Molly rolls her eyes. He must know how fake his wheedling sounds, and yet, somehow, he also knows it will work on her. And it does work. Maybe because it’s fake. Oh, who knows.

“Fine, all right. Text me the details.”

“Excellent, thank you. And oh, by the way, if you’ve got a cirrhotic liver in front of you, can you save it for me?”

“Sherlock, seriously.”

“Please.”

“I have to go, Sherlock. Bye.”

***

The dance is black-tie optional. Molly debates what to wear for a bit, finally settling on a leaf-green chiffon dress with a handkerchief hem that’s been languishing at the back of the closet for a while. It’s a good dancing dress, nice and twirly, sleeveless but with substantial enough straps to stay put through the action. Once, when she was new to ballroom, she wore something strapless, and had to take multiple trips to the powder room to shimmy and shift it back into place. She’s also learned that backless dresses are a bad idea; a halter neck will stay in place well enough, but you stop feeling sexy pretty quickly when you’ve had multiple guys’ palms wetly clamped to the back of your sweaty shoulderblade over the course of an hour or two.

She’s just putting the finishing touches on her hair when Sherlock rings the bell. She answers the door, and, oh, she has to bite her lips to keep from looking as giddy as she feels at the sight of him. Of course he’s always been gorgeous, but in an evening suit and purple silk waistcoat, he’s simply impossible. He’s done something smart with his hair, as well, tamed it a bit. He looks princely.

“You look passable,” he says, somewhat spoiling the impression. “Shall we?”

They take a cab to the hall where the dance is being held and join the loose throng of well-dressed couples making their way inside. Molly’s been to things like this before. They tend to draw a rather funny crowd, a mix of nostalgic old people and eccentric younger adults, as well as a few exhibition dancers who just want to have some fun. 

“How did you get into dancing, Sherlock?” she asks. She can’t really picture him just seeing a flyer for a dance class and deciding it would be a fun thing to try on a dull Tuesday night.

“Mummy made us take lessons.” He wrinkles his nose. “I hated dancing with the neighborhood girls. They were all too tall.” 

Molly tries to imagine a world in which girls are taller than Sherlock, and fails. By now, the band is tuned up and couples are making their way onto the floor. Sherlock offers his hand with a small bow and leads her out.

“Of course I won’t be able to dance every song with you, since I’m here to mingle,” he says. 

“Of course, I know. It’s fine.” 

As the first notes introduce a sprightly waltz, Sherlock takes her easily into closed position, snugging his right hand against her back and raising her right hand with his left. She rests her left hand on the crisp, dark fabric of his shoulder, the warmth of his body just feelable along the length of her arm, and waits for his lead. 

When it comes, it’s—rather rough. He steers her rigidly into a basic step, fingertips digging hard into her back as he pushes against her outstretched arm. Technically, he’s an excellent dancer, but it’s not pleasurable at all. She tries not to feel too disappointed; she was looking forward to this moment, but now she’s rather relieved that she won’t have to dance with him all night. It’s hard work pushing back against his extreme rigidity, and the way he’s shoving her about leaves no room for any flourishes on her part. He muscles her into an underarm turn, catching her hand very firmly on the way out, making her flinch.

“It’s all right, just relax,” he says. That’s when she realizes what’s going on: he doesn’t think she can dance.

“You could lighten up a bit,” she says. “I promise not to crash into anyone.”

He grimaces, maybe in apology, but the sensation of being carried around like a doll does actually diminish somewhat. That lets Molly relax a little, that riding-a-bicycle part of her brain kicks in, and she starts to notice the music, a fun little brass quintet. She glances around and sees people smiling, twirling, showing off their favorite moves. Her feet feel light. This is better. She flashes Sherlock a quick smile, and is amazed to see a corner of his mouth quirked up in a flicker of enjoyment.

“Oh, you really _can_ dance,” he says.

“Told you.” She softens her words with a smile, and Sherlock smiles back. This is the closest she’s ever been able to observe his face, and she notices things that she hasn’t before: the lines around his eyes and mouth, a freckle on his neck. He’s perspiring a little near his hairline. His frame is firm and more substantial than his slim-cut clothes make it look, and his hand is warm and dry supporting hers. For all that, though, it doesn’t feel like a sex fantasy. Their formal clothes keep them decorously separated, and his hands are steady and respectful.

“How did you get the idea to call me, anyway?” she asks. “This isn’t the sort of thing that everyone’s up for.” 

His eyebrows go up. “Oh, Lestrade suggested it, actually. He said you were a good dancer.”

“Oh, right, we danced at John and Mary’s wedding. Greg said that? Really?” 

“Oh yes.” 

It makes her smile a bit more broadly, and she looks down at her left hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Her engagement ring catches the light.

“Is Tom a good dancer?” Sherlock asks. 

“Oh, he’s. He’s all right.”

“So no, then.”

“Well.” Her heart sinks a little, and she feels her smile bending up the wrong way.

Sherlock gives her a spin on the next downbeat, and she’s composed herself by the time she gets back. He takes her into a little closer hold this time, his chin over her shoulder.

“You know I’m not very good with relationships,” he says, his voice low and quiet. She nods. A couple of measures pass: 1-2-3, 1-2-3. She wonders if he’ll say anything else. 

“That Tom. I think you’re too good for him, Molly. Too smart, for starters.”

She laughs, a choked, nervous sound. “You can’t say that sort of thing to people who are engaged.”

“Oh, sorry. Should I wait until you’re married?” 

She shifts her hold on his arm into something that might very possibly be a hug. “No.” Her voice sounds small. She sniffs a couple of times. 

He stiffens. “Do be careful, though, you’ll get makeup on my sleeve.”

“Sorry.” She leans back, makes a face to try and get her nose to stop tickling. Sherlock’s eyes are resolutely focused on the dancers around them. 

And then the musicians go into a ritardando, and Sherlock leads her into a final spin followed by a fairly conservative dip, and the song is over. Sherlock escorts her off the floor, and then lets his gaze snap up to search the room, all business.

“I need to find my next partner. We should dance again in…three songs. See you then?”

She nods, and goes to refresh her makeup. She definitely does not cry in the bathroom mirror. She hates how she looks when she’s crying.

Three songs later turns out to be a tango, and they both fake it outrageously, glaring and waggling their eyebrows in mock passion as the corners of her skirt snap back and forth like pennants. Molly dances with a number of other men, and one short woman in a suit, who is actually quite a good leader. She and Sherlock don’t dance again until the last waltz, when it’s customary to return to the person you came with. It’s a slow, sweet song, and Sherlock’s steps are lyrical, his touch light. He sends her into spin after spin, letting her dance mostly on her own, only catching her now and then to send her flying off again, free.

They share a cab home in companionable quiet, the body-high of a full evening of exercise evaporating slowly into the cool night air. Sherlock offers to pay for her cab fare, but she shoves a few pounds into his hand.

“No, I insist. I had a lovely evening, really.”

His eyes find hers. “You’ll remember what I said?”

“I…yes, I will.” She nods. “And. Thank you. For saying it. And thanks for the lovely time, again.”

She gets out. The cab lingers until she finds her door keys deep in the bottom of her bag. Then Sherlock taps the cab roof twice, and he’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> This was just one of those instant plot-bunnies that Must Be Acknowledged. Their evening is based on my experience of the social dance scene in the SF Bay Area. I have no idea how well it translates to London, and frankly, I couldn't care less. Mwah! Thanks for reading.
> 
> Title is from a Leonard Cohen song.


End file.
